


Lay It On Me

by SosoHolmesWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Not from a building or something though), Cute Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hug Scene (Sherlock: The Lying Detective), Inspired by Music, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Recovery, Repressed John Watson, Romantic Gestures, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Takes The Leap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24738067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SosoHolmesWatson/pseuds/SosoHolmesWatson
Summary: "Romantic entanglement while fulfilling for other people--""--would complete you as a human being."John is right. Sherlock has no doubt about it at this point. It has taken him long enough to realise and longer still to accept it but, with all the data at hand, there is no longer room for any other conclusion.Yes, John is right and Sherlock has to do something about it.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 78
Kudos: 200





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Vance Joy's LAY IT ON ME](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VXXD1Qxpisw)

There really is no other way, Sherlock decides as he watches John finish his tea.

They are both sitting in their chairs, a fire happily crackling beside them, filling the flat with dancing, golden light. Rosie is perched on John’s lap, her little fingers reaching for his face and teacup. John dodges them expertly and bounces the leg she’s on. At the movement, Rosie lets out a high-pitched giggle, her mouth opening in rapture and revealing soft, pink gums. John chuckles and settles his arm more firmly around her, tugging the little girl closely to his chest.

The sight warms Sherlock more than the fire.

Rosie is growing so fast, he thinks as he watches her clap excitedly. Every time his gaze falls on her, she seems to be bigger by an inch at least, with more golden hair curling on her little head and a new sense of understanding in her round, blue eyes.

He can’t believe it’s been only a few months since her mother died. Rosie seems to be doing just fine now, but Sherlock can’t help but wonder if she notices the sudden gap in her life, if her brain can fathom the loss she has already suffered. Hopefully, she is too young to comprehend it.

John seems to have come to terms with it, at least. Ever since that fateful day at the hospital, when John had hit rock bottom as his fists and feet had met Sherlock’s body, ever since he had broken down later, on Sherlock’s birthday, at this very spot, his reins slackened enough for once to grant him weakness and vulnerability, he seems to be doing better every time Sherlock sees him.

His face tells of more sleep (even when taking the strain of being a single parent to a baby into account) and his hands disclose that he has widely given up on drinking. When he’s taken Sherlock to his check-ups at the hospital, and now, when he’s monitoring Sherlock’s recovery himself, John is calm and collected, a little more solemn than he used to be maybe, but he looks relieved, freed from a burden, as if it had taken this violent thunderstorm to finally wash off some of the dust and guilt that had settled on him over the years.

Sherlock has thought about this afternoon for the past five weeks, has replayed it in his mind palace second by second more times than he cares to count: the way John had cried in his arms. Sometimes his skin still itches with the memory of John’s soft skin under his fingers. The scent that had wafted off John’s hair, familiar and yet overwhelming, seems to linger in the air and re-enter his nose when he least expects it.

But that’s not all Sherlock thinks about.

Most of his considerable mental energy he invests in examining their conversation that day.

The words John had said to him are forever imprinted on the walls of his skull, an internal tattoo covering the grey matter Sherlock is so proud of.

_“Romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people...”_

_“...would complete you as a human being.”_

Sherlock has mulled over these words, has stretched and turned and compressed them until he had wrung the last bit of meaning from them.

John is right. Sherlock has no doubt about it at this point. It has taken him long enough to realise and longer still to accept it but, with all the data at hand, there is no longer room for any other conclusion.

_“Do something while there’s still a chance, because that chance doesn’t last forever. Trust me, Sherlock: it’s gone before you know it. Before you know it.”_

The words had shaken something loose in Sherlock’s chest, something that had been stuck in a dark corner, eschewing the light of consciousness.

Sherlock had looked up, one of his eyes red with blood, the cut on his brow stinging as he frowned, and had wondered how John couldn’t know, how he could say these things and look at him and _still_ _don’t know_.

Sherlock shifts in his seat, the teacup in his hand uncomfortably fragile. He sets it down just as John sighs with a familiar air of termination.

“Well, I best be going now. Rosie is overdue for a nap and she gets unbelievably cranky when she falls asleep on the tube,” he says and heaves his daughter into his arm as he gets up.

Sherlock ducks his head. “Yes, of course.”

“I’ll just quickly use the loo if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead,” Sherlock waves and, as a matter of course, he reaches out to receive a wriggling Rosie.

Sherlock’s eyes follow John as he heads down the hall. Rosie takes advantage of this momentary inattentiveness and dugs her little fists into Sherlock’s curls. He gently untangles them and, as the door to the loo shuts behind John, Sherlock rises to his feet, adjusts his grip around Rosie and quietly walks over to the window. Looking back over his shoulder to check the bathroom door is really closed, he pulls open a drawer on the little cabinet next to the desk.

From underneath a smorgasbord of documents, he retrieves a tightly folded piece of paper. The edges are slightly worn already from having been handled so many times by tentative fingers.

Sherlock looks at the letter for a second. He’s written it weeks ago, has been poring over it ever since—and still can’t shake off the doubt.

“Is this a stupid idea?” he murmurs into Rosie’s silky hair but, in lieu of an answer, Rosie only gurgles wetly, a string of spit dropping onto Sherlock’s shirt. He gives her a fond smile and a little peck on her forehead.

No, he can’t go on like this, having only bits and pieces, the odd afternoon and a case now and then. Rosie is growing up and the thought that he could be nothing but a peripheral spectator makes Sherlock’s stomach clench painfully.

There is no other way. He has to act now.

Before he can lose his courage, he swiftly tiptoes over to where John has hung up his coat on the landing and slides the letter into his pocket.

In the bathroom, water is running, and Sherlock hurries back to his armchair before John opens the door again.

“Are you still on for watching her on Tuesday?” John asks as he re-enters the kitchen and picks up Rosie’s diaper bag, unaware of Sherlock’s doings.

“Sure. I can pick her up from daycare, too, if you want to,” he says, pleased to find that his voice doesn’t betray the jumble in his head.

“That’d be great, thank you.”

John picks up his daughter and straps her to his chest. She struggles a little against the wrap but ultimately accepts her fate and leans her head against John. Sherlock follows them to the door and watches anxiously as John puts on his coat. “And you text me if anything interesting pops up?”

“What?” Sherlock asks absentmindedly before his brain comes back online. “Um, yes, of course.”

“Okay then.” John straightens his shoulders and gives Sherlock a soft smile. “This was nice.”

It is this smile, this fond and somewhat sheepish expression that flashes over John’s face every now and then that is driving Sherlock insane, that makes watching and waiting and wishing just not good enough anymore.

“It always is,” Sherlock replies in a low voice and swallows as John’s tongue darts out to wet his lips.

For a second, the urge to just grab John, to pull him and Rosie close and never let either of them go again is irresistible, burning in Sherlock’s muscles like wildfire.

But then Rosie whines disgruntledly, her little limbs struggling against the wrap, and John diverts his gaze.

“See you on Tuesday,” he says, adjusting the diaper bag’s position before he walks down the stairs.

“Tuesday,” Sherlock confirms a little late and John, already half-way gone, turns around and gives him another smile. It looks a little sad but maybe Sherlock’s just projecting his own sense of loss onto the familiar face.

The next second, John has vanished around the corner.

The door falls shut downstairs and Sherlock is left alone, his heartbeat echoing in the empty flat.


	2. John

Dusk has fallen when John steps out of the tube station. Winter is rearing up again, stretching out frosty fingers for any sliver of exposed skin, and the air is heavy with the scent of imminent snow. John ducks his head against the icy wind blowing down the street and hurries home.

Home.

It still doesn’t quite feel right to call the flat he and Mary had gotten together that. John has never quite felt at home there, not for the years he shared the space with Mary, not now that it’s only him and Rosie. Even though John doesn’t want to admit it and even though it’s been years since he’s actually lived there, _home_ still looks like walls with bullet holes and union jack pillows and earphones on a bison skull to him.

John tries to shake off the thought and digs his hands deep into his pockets against the cold. Rosie’s little winter hat tickles his chin. Naturally, she has long fallen asleep—unimpressed by all of John’s endeavours to keep her awake in hope to get her to sleep through the night.

Only when he reaches the door and fumbles for his keys, John’s frozen fingers realise that there is something in his pocket that hasn’t been there before.

Quickly, he steps into the warmth of the hallway and pulls out a piece of paper, too thick to be a receipt or a forgotten shopping list. It’s smooth, stiffer and more expensive than the pads John uses at the clinic, and has been folded several times.

Something about this slip feels odd, causes a surge of adrenaline John can’t quite place but he knows better than to dismiss his natural instincts.

In the dimness, he can’t make out a thing but he doesn’t want to wake up Rosie by turning on a light. Trying to get his heart rate to slow down, John feels his way up the stairs and carefully peels Rosie out of his coat and the wrap. She snoozes on, only letting out muffled groans as he gets her ready for bed and places her in her crib.

He takes the baby monitor back downstairs again, switches on the lamp by the sofa and slumps down. His fingers are still red and tender from the cold as they pull out the curious piece of paper again.

As he unfolds it John instantly recognises the small, scrawly handwriting.

His throat is awfully dry all at once as he stares down at the densely packed words without reading a single one.

He needs a drink. He hasn’t had a proper one in over a month now and this occasion certainly calls for one. John is already half-way to the liquor cabinet before he remembers that he’s gotten rid of everything, for good reason. God knows he’s followed in Harry’s detested footsteps far too much already.

A hard, spikey chunk of shame rolls around in the pit of his stomach and John can’t move, fighting the thirst. A minute or so passes before he finally straightens his shoulders.

The next best thing for frayed nerves then.

He swerves to the kitchen and prepares himself a cuppa. The soothing scent of the hot liquid fills the small space and wafts after John as he carries his mug back to the sofa. For a few slow seconds, he just breathes in the vapours and puts his thoughts in order.

Whatever’s led Sherlock to write this letter—and apparently smuggle it into his pocket—it must be important if it can’t be spoken or texted. Maybe Baker Street is under observation again and this is the only safe means of communication.

John replays the afternoon they have just spent together and tries to remember if Sherlock had seemed agitated or worried.

It is hard to tell, it always is with Sherlock. And even if John is sure that he has gotten closer to Sherlock than maybe any other person, he still is far from having him all figured out. Sherlock is too good of an actor, has mastered the art of concealing his true thoughts and feelings too perfectly for anyone to penetrate his mask.

John can never be sure what’s going on in that brilliant head of his.

And Sherlock surely doesn’t help him figure it out, John thinks resentfully and sips at his tea.

His eyes rest on the note, lying on the coffee table.

Maybe Sherlock is trying. With this letter.

The time it spent stuffed into John’s pocket has crumpled it so that the edges are sticking out in odd angles like broken limbs.

John picks it up, smooths it out as best he can and finally reads it.

_Dear John,_

_As my closest friend and the person who knows me best, you will have come to understand over the years that expressing my emotions is exceptionally difficult for me since I have always valued and prioritised logic and reasoning above all else._

_However, since I have met you I had to discard my principles of emotional detachment and allow for the possibility that I do, after all, have a heart. You and Rosie are without a doubt integral to my well-being and your safety and happiness are my paramount concern. Even though I can seldom conform to societal standards I do believe that this qualifies as ‘love’. My affection, an affection as deep and inexhaustible as I never would have thought possible, is undeniable._

_Still, it seems that I have not yet lived up to my full emotional potential—out of fear, out of inexperience, or maybe out of a false sense of considerateness._

_But what you have told me on my birthday has led me to believe that taking action and risking rejection is far more commendable than indulging oneself in wishful thinking._

John pauses. The words of the letter flicker before his eyes, seem to shake in the warm light of the sitting room until John realises it’s his hands that are trembling.

He tries to sip at his tea but his jaw is set tightly, his lips glued shut. The baby monitor cracks faintly as Rosie rolls around in her crib but the sound barely makes it to John’s ears.

He is stuck in a bubble, just he and the letter clutched in his hand. Nothing outside of it matters, nothing is real but those words he hears in his head in a deep, well-known voice. Even his own heartbeat, heavy and ominous, is drowned out by the timbre of Sherlock’s voice conjured by his writing.

John forces himself to take a breath even though the oxygen here in his bubble is limited.

Still trembling, he keeps reading:

_John, this letter is my cowardly way of confessing my feelings. It stems from nothing but my honest and heartfelt wish to live up to your expectations, to be completed as a human being, as you have put it._

_I know I have hurt you, maybe more than any other person ever has or could, but, still, I’m asking you to forgive me, to make room in your life—and Rosie’s—for me, because I have concluded that you are and always have been the only good and lovable thing about me, the only person who could possibly complete me._

_I have told you before but I feel the need to repeat myself, for the rest of my life if you let me: I love you. And I will continue to love you, in all the ways you see fit, in whatever fashion you prefer, as long as I live. If you can find it in your heart to give me another chance to prove myself worthy of your affection, I promise I will not let you down._

_I am not asking you to reciprocate. I am not even asking you to consider your own feelings if you are not ready. All I want is for you and Rosie to come home, to Baker Street, to me, and to let me give you all I am capable of giving and as much as you are ready to receive._

_Always yours,_

_Sherlock_

John’s gaze lingers on the signature, then flicks back to individual words and passages; _the only good and lovable thing—if you let me—worthy—reciprocate—as much as you are ready to receive—I love you—I love you—I love you._

He circles back to it, his eyes drawn in forcefully by the three words, as if they were a dying star, tearing up anything in its orbit with its overwhelming gravitational force. Deadly and beautiful.

Something wet drops onto the paper, smudging and blurring the words. It takes John a second to comprehend that he is crying. A sob makes its way up his tight throat, so raspy it almost hurts. Indignantly, John dries his eyes with his sleeve and sets the letter down on the coffee table.

The bubble has burst and yet the room around him still feels oddly void of air.

The baby monitor cracks again and, this time, tinny wails erupt from it, growing louder fast. John can hear their source upstairs and quickly gets up. His legs wobble under his weight for a second.

Rosie is rolling around in her crib, crying at the top of her lungs, as John enters the nursery. He reaches down and hoists her into his arms, his fatherly instincts overriding the torrent of thoughts rushing through his head. Rosie bawls into his ear and John gently bounces and swings her, hastily going through his mental checklist.

Tired? Nope.

Diaper? Dry.

Hungry? Might be.

He takes Rosie downstairs and prepares some formula. His approach seems to work because Rosie begins to suck eagerly as soon as he offers her the bottle. John sits down at the kitchen table with Rosie in his arm and watches her drink.

She is so soft, so warm, so perfect. Sometimes, John can’t fathom his love for her. It’s almost frightening in its intensity and of a different colour than everything he’s ever felt before, like a new lens slid over his vision.

John has experienced this once before, this sensation of having his light spectrum widened, broadened. He had seen everything monochrome until he met—

He can feel something settle in his chest with calm security and holds Rosie a little closer.

This is the easiest decision he has ever made.

“Guess what, bumblebee,” John murmurs into his daughter’s hair and a smile spreads on his face. “We’re going home.”


	3. John

For the first time in months—years if he’s honest—John wakes up and is excited for what the new day may bring. Maybe even more unusual is that he’s actually feeling rested, he ponders as he turns to his side and relishes the last traces of sleepiness slowly lifting from his brain like early morning fog.

Rosie has stirred but once after John has put her back to bed after her bottle. Apart from that, John has slept an uninterrupted and dreamless slumber he hasn’t known for years. Although his nightmares have relented over the past weeks, they never quite leave him, and a night without startling awake with cold sweat beading on his forehead and his heart beating out of his chest is rare, to say the least.

A bright grin splits John’s face before he even opens his eyes. Stretching and yawning, his hands brush over the sheets. The thought that he might never have to spend another night in this bed makes something bright and bubbly tickle in his belly, not unlike the surge of excitement at the first drop on a rollercoaster.

He rubs his eyes open and reaches over to his nightstand where the letter is resting, watching over him all night and conceivably keeping his nightmares at bay.

By now, it is flattened out completely, having been read at least twenty times already.

John can’t help himself and scans through the words again, not quite believing he’s not still dreaming. He pinches himself, just to be sure.

But the words are still there, black on white, tangible and real.

Sherlock loves him.

Sherlock loves him and wants him to come home, to be— whatever John wants.

Yes, Sherlock has taken the leap of faith, without expecting anything in return, and has written him a proper, old-fashioned love letter.

John’s throat grows a little tight again in the face of this sweet gesture.

He’s never received a love letter before.

Not from any of his ex-girlfriends, not from his late wife.

The only letter Mary’s ever written him had been nothing but a coward’s resort, an excuse for abandoning him and their child without even having the decency to say goodbye.

Sherlock is not a coward. No, he’s brave and courageous and vulnerable when John least expects him to be.

When John is least worthy to see him so open and trusting.

His mind inevitably wanders back to the appalling note he’s written Sherlock just a few months ago, right after Mary’s death. He curses himself again for having stooped so low, for having wreaked his anger and frustration on the person least deserving it.

He’s been such a horrible friend to Sherlock lately.

And yet, Sherlock has still risked it all, has put his fragile, little heart out there, hidden so long from the world’s callous touch, and offered John to leave his mark.

The thought makes John’s chest clench with unbearable affection but still something less pleasant tinges the feeling.

In hindsight, it seems so obvious and John finds he’s annoyed with himself for not having taken the first step, for lacking the courage Sherlock has displayed with this confession.

It should’ve been him.

He should’ve been braver.

He should’ve been honest, with Sherlock, with the world, with himself.

John owes Sherlock an apology, among other, less straightforward things. He needs to be a better man and this time he won’t rely on a hallucination of his dead wife to give Sherlock this promise.

John bites his lip.

Suddenly, the thought of packing up his and Rosie’s belongings without much ado and just showing up at 221B—a thought that has lifted him up the past hours with its enticing image—doesn’t seem to cut it anymore.

It just doesn’t seem enough.

After abundantly making fun of silly human sentiment over the years, here is Sherlock, crafting a beautiful love letter and hiding it in John’s coat pocket. The charming bastard.

Accepting Sherlock’s invitation to return to Baker Street so unceremoniously wouldn’t be an appropriate response, now would it?

And it certainly wouldn’t measure up to John’s reputation. After all, he’s supposed to be the romantic.

Overcome by an unexpected sense of pride, John puts down the letter and grabs his phone instead.

He only remembers how early it still is when Mrs Hudson answers with a somewhat disgruntled “Hello?”

“Mrs H, it’s John. I’m so sorry; Did I wake you?”

“John?” she repeats, sleep being replaced by alarm. “Everything alright?”

“Yes, everything’s great actually,” John hastily reassures her. “I’m just calling to ask you for a tiny, little favour.” In hindsight, he could’ve been a little more considerate, John thinks as Mrs Hudson lets out an audible breath.

“A favour?” she asks, her worry apparently dissolving back into annoyance. “Couldn’t that’ve waited for another hour?” She doesn’t even try to stifle the following yawn.

“I really am sorry, Mrs H, but it’s urgent. Do you know if Sherlock’s home today?”

The two seconds it takes her to answer are tearing at John’s patience with force.

“Actually,” Mrs Hudson finally says, “I think he’s talked Molly into letting him use the lab today. Usually, she doesn’t come in on Saturdays but you know how persuasive he can get. He said something about dissolving toenails, I didn’t ask any further.”

“Perfect!” John exclaims and can vividly picture the confusion on Mrs Hudson’s face in light of his excitement about dissolving toenails. “Do you think you could phone me real quick when he’s left the house?”

“Of course, dear,” she replies unsurely. “What’s this about then?”

“I’m just planning a little surprise is all.” John grins. “Oh, and would you mind watching Rosie today?”

“Oh sure, you know I’m always happy to have her.”

“Brilliant, thank you so much, Mrs H. You’re a treasure. See you later then.”

Mrs Hudson can barely utter a confused “Bye, dear” before John hangs up and jumps out of bed. He’s got no time to lose.

The grin apparently chiselled into his skull, he waits for Rosie to wake up, plans already forming into fantastic scenarios in his mind. He’s all but vibrating with excitement.

Rosie senses his high spirits and lets out wet giggles throughout her breakfast. John himself is too nervous to even think about eating. He just hastily downs a cup of coffee—maybe not the smartest decision in light of his already wired state—and then carries Rosie upstairs again to get them both ready. While she’s safely sitting in her crib, John showers and gets dressed a little more diligently than usual, and then puts Rosie in her cutest onesie—the one with little bees all over it. After all, they have a big day ahead of them.


	4. Sherlock

What a waste of time.

Sherlock puts on his Belstaff and scarf a tad more forcefully than necessary, choking himself a little. That only adds to his bad mood.

A whole day of experiments and not a single interesting result.

He pushes through the lab door out into the hall and crosses it with long, annoyed strides, not bothering to let Molly know he’s leaving. She’ll figure it out.

His steps echo in the empty corridors and the neon lights burn in his eyes after staring through his microscope for so long. Hours and hours of preparing and measuring and adjusting, of breathing in smells no human nose should ever have to endure—and nothing to show for it.

At least it’s not like he had anything else to do today, Sherlock thinks grimly, ramming his fists into his coat pockets. He’s got nothing else to occupy his time—no real case (apart from the cold case featuring magically disappearing toenails), no Rosie to watch, no John to make him watch ridiculous action movies.

He’s almost tempted to call Mycroft for a round of Operation.

He turns the corner into the entrance hall, bumping into a woman. Ignoring her angry “Excuse you!”, he rushes past her and out into the winter air.

It’s completely dark outside already though it can’t be later than five. The London traffic creeps by, cars trapped in long lines although it’s Saturday, and Sherlock admonishes the universe to better get him a cab. Being stuffed in the tube with loud, smelly, importunate people is the last thing he needs right now.

And walking is definitely not an option.

Even through his thick coat, the cold quickly seeps into every cell. Only when he’s past the gates and the first wet, white flakes settle on his hair, he realizes that it’s snowing into the bargain.

Great.

Still in a huff, he trudges alongside the road, his coat collar turned up against the freezing wind, until, finally, a cab pulls over for him.

The ride to Baker Street takes forever and a day, giving Sherlock enough time to brood over his failed experiments and the fact that life seems to be excessively unfair as of late. Everything that once gave him joy or purpose is forsaking him and whatever Sherlock tries to stop this alarming development just doesn’t work. It’s all slipping through his fingers before his eyes.

The cab stops at last and Sherlock pays the cabbie. His shoulders are tense and his coat somehow weighs significantly more than usual as he climbs the two steps and opens the door to 221B.

He knows that something is up as soon as he enters the hall.

John and Rosie are here—her pram is sloppily hidden under the stairs and a faint trace of John’s aftershave hangs in the air.

Sherlock halts and listens carefully.

The muffled sound of Mrs Hudson’s voice and Rosie’s nonsensical answers is trickling through the door to his right. John’s voice isn’t part of the mix, though.

Maybe he’s just dropped her off at Mrs Hudson’s for whatever reason. Sherlock finds that hard to believe.

He fishes his phone out of his pocket and checks it for missed calls and messages. Surely, John would’ve contacted him before Mrs Hudson if he needed a babysitter.

There’s nothing in his inbox.

Sherlock is just debating whether to enter Mrs Hudson’s flat and ask her what is going on or stomp upstairs straight away when another sound reaches his ears.

Music.

There’s definitely music playing, featherlight and instrumental, one of Sherlock’s favourite pieces in fact.

It’s floating down the stairs from his flat, enticing like a siren’s call.

Sherlock feels his legs move without recalling a conscious decision to do so. All of his frustration has given way to confusing, all-encompassing anticipation, a sense of urgency and importance he can’t quite place. He mounts the stairs as if remote-controlled, his brain still trying to handle the subtle signals his subconscious picks up.

The music grows louder and other scents mix in with John’s aftershave but Sherlock’s olfactory index seems to be currently out of order.

He pauses on the landing and then, his hand slightly trembling, he opens the door to the sitting room.

What he sees presses the air out of his lungs in a surprised gasp.

There is John, standing in the middle of the room, his face illuminated by dozens of candles and tealights placed on every available surface of the flat. The light pours over Sherlock like liquid gold.

He blinks, unsure whether to believe his eyes. Bouquets of varying sizes are arranged in vases and some of Sherlock’s larger flasks, and now Sherlock’s brain finally identifies the enchanting fragrance. There are white peonies, green carnations, and bunches of lavender…

“Hi,” says John with a nervous smile.

“Hi,” Sherlock replies, the word barely more than a breath. The blood rushing in his ears drowns it out easily. “What—what are you doing here?”

John’s smile deepens. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Sherlock furrows his brows, his mind racing. He tries to clear his throat, with mediocre success. “You… bought candles. And flowers.”

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“They’re my favourite. How did you—”

“You mentioned it, back when we were planning…” John’s voice peters out.

“And you remembered,” Sherlock rasps, awestruck.

He recalls the afternoon they spent at the florist all those months ago, looking at roses, lilies, and baby’s breath for the wedding. Mentioning his own floral preferences couldn’t have been more than a passing comment.

And John remembered.

Sherlock steps further into the room and lets his gaze roam over this extraordinary display. On the kitchen table, among another dozen candles, stands a cooler with a bottle of champagne next to two glasses. Sherlock is also sure he has spotted a gigantic box of pralines from his favourite chocolaterie.

He turns back to John, his mouth slightly agape. In his head, a thought manifests, too hopeful and too ridiculous to exist.

Could it be…?

“Sherlock,” John starts, taking a deep breath and a few steps towards him until there’s barely any space left between them.

Sherlock waits, unable to speak or move, his eyes fixed on John. His heart is beating heavily in his throat, a second away from leaping out of him.

John sucks in the air again, straightening his posture as if readying himself for battle, and Sherlock braces himself for the words that inevitably have to follow.

But they don’t come.

John lets his breath stream out of him unvoiced, nerves and trepidation painted on his face before something different settles over his features.

With a sound of surrender, John’s left hand wraps around Sherlock’s wrist while the right reaches forward and gently settles on Sherlock’s cheek, a slightly calloused thumb tracing his cheekbone.

A shiver trickles down Sherlock’s spine at the touch. He holds his breath as his hand mirrors the motion of its own volition, his fingers burying themselves in the soft hair behind John’s ear.

For a second, both of them halt, gaze flicking back and forth between lips and eyes, but then their mouths crash together with the force of an avalanche and Sherlock is knocked off his feet, bowled over by the sheer intensity of it. Little white lights start to dance behind his eyelids as his body disregards gravity and threatens to float off, up into the night sky to dance with the snowflakes.

Only John is tethering him to earth, keeping him centred and safe with his lips pressed to Sherlock’s.

A surge of heat wrecks Sherlock’s entire body as John pulls him into a tight embrace and begins to move his mouth. Sherlock sighs from the depths of his chest, parting his lips like a drowning man gasping for air. His other arm snakes around John, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt, desperate for something to hold on to.

John cranes his neck, angles Sherlock’s head with gentle movements and invites him in. As their tongues touch, lightning strikes in Sherlock’s mind, eradicating every thought other than the taste of John.

Sherlock melts into him.

Before long, the kiss deepens, grows needy and hot, too hot to tolerate any barriers between them.

Shoes and shirts and trousers land on the floor down the hallway as they stumble toward Sherlock’s bedroom.

Sherlock lets himself be pushed onto his bed, his fingertips already burning at the loss of contact.

He looks up at John who’s getting rid of his last bit of clothing.

Sherlock is still not sure he isn’t dreaming.

John is so beautiful. How can he be real?

Sherlock needs to touch him to prove he’s not fabricating this. He wants to smell and taste and catalogue him until every memory in his vast mind palace is replaced by nothing but John.

John settles in next to him, leaves space for Sherlock to explore, lets him lick and brush and nuzzle his way.

Sherlock is in trance, guided only by a truth he’s long suspected:

Everything starts at John’s skin. He's never been actually living before this very moment.

“I’m taking you up on your offer by the way,” John says later as the air around them is filled with the scent of sweat and the sound of light-hearted laughter.

He’s lying on his back, Sherlock wrapped around him like a long-legged spider monkey.

“My offer?” Sherlock asks, still dazed. For once, his mind is enjoyably sluggish.

He can feel John smile against his forehead.

“To move back in,” he says. “To try this. Because I love you too, in every way imaginable.”

“I’ve gathered as much,” Sherlock quips although his tone betrays his happiness.

John pokes his side and Sherlock yelps before they both fall back into giddy giggling.

“There’s so much that I’ve actually wanted to say, you know,” John sighs after a while. “About how I feel and what you mean to me. I had a speech prepared and everything.”

Sherlock languidly shifts in John’s arm, snuggling impossibly closer. “Really?”

“Yes.” John’s arm around Sherlock’s waist tightens. “After reading your letter… all these wonderful things you said. I should’ve done that. Earlier, I mean. Years ago. I should’ve told you.”

Sherlock suppresses a yawn. He can’t remember the last time he’s been this relaxed. “The timing just wasn’t right.”

“Bugger the timing. I was simply a coward.”

“You weren’t ready,” Sherlock assuages John, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on John’s skin. “And you’ve made up for it. No one has ever done anything remotely like that for me. That was disgustingly romantic.”

“But you liked it.”

“I loved it.”

John presses a kiss into Sherlock’s curls. “Least I could do. Thank you for being so patient.”

For a few minutes, blissful, sated silence covers them again. Sherlock relishes in the calm movement of John’s body beneath his, the waxing and waning of his breath, and considers letting slumber take him for a few hours. It’s a tempting prospect to simply drift off, being held so closely, so safely, so lovingly.

But now that he knows John had planned on telling him about his feelings—rather than just letting the kiss speak for itself—Sherlock can’t help but wonder.

And eventually, his curiosity gets the best of him.

“You know, you could tell me now,” he proposes tentatively, his fingers toying with the golden hair on John’s chest. “What you wanted to say.”

John turns his head to look at him. “Do you want me to?”

“Of course. I’d hate to waste a good speech.”

“It’s a lot, though.” John sounds almost apologetically. “Saved it all up for some years now.”

Sherlock props himself up on his elbows and meets John’s eyes. A grin spreads on his face. “Lay it on me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write for the joy of it and your kudos and comments are reward enough.  
> Still, if you enjoyed this work and want to show your appreciation by treating me to a cuppa (and making my college life a little easier), feel free to do so [here.](https://ko-fi.com/sosoholmeswatson)
> 
> Lots of love!


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